


The Wisdom of Crocodiles

by LeVen



Series: A Million Memories Washed Ashore [6]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Betrayal, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Mal dies and it's horrible, Murder, Near Death Experiences, Purgatory, graphic description of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 20:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeVen/pseuds/LeVen
Summary: Malachi called Lilliana Havermoon "mom" once in his life- while he was begging for it to be spared. He died alone and afraid, betrayed by the ones he loved the most. He chokes on his own breath.





	The Wisdom of Crocodiles

In any other circumstances, standing by the shores of the lake would have been a welcome sight. Not in the middle of the night. Not when he’s uncomfortable at the sight of an array painted across the shoreline. In the shadows cast by the moon, Mal can’t tell what material the array is painted in. It’s well made, but Malachi never studied rituals, he doesn’t know what any of this means.

His feet are bare and his arms had been unbound until they reached the lake. He is wearing nothing but the white robe given to him by Ankaurk. There are people standing around the array he doesn’t recognize. Mal’s mother stands in the middle, Osran standing behind her as he always did. He couldn’t shake the sinister feeling gnawing at his heart, unsure of how to react to the display in front of him. His family says nothing as he approaches, dancing to a game he was never taught the rules for. 

Masha and Frija’s grip on his arms is made of steel, cold and unshakable. He’s used to their rough treatment of him. As a child, he’d always looked forward to the months where his sisters would spend in the capital with their mother. Those were happier times when Osran's gaze loosened enough for him to have a little bit of fun. 

The blows his sisters dealt on him were of the same intent holding him in place. They wanted power over him. If power they wanted, it was the power they got. Mal was so easy to control when all he wanted was a little bit of attention. But with his sisters, attention typically wasn't the kind he wanted. 

Mal bites back the growing alarm in his chest. There's something very, very wrong and he didn't know what. Mal didn't think he wanted to know what they were going to do. Yara wasn't there. The peacekeeper of the family, the only one who even tried to look put for him was nowhere to be found. 

Malachi is held before the array and forced to his knees. He needs to run, find Ankaurk. His legs refuse to budge. The knife in his mother's hands is ornate, forged from black steels and decorated with rubies and delicate shimmering shells. He’s seen it once before, hidden away in the family’s treasure room. It thrummed with the magic enchanted into the core of the blade. Mal’s eyes follow the sharp hook of the blade down to its tip. It was made to cut through flesh, refined even farther to cut through bone if she wanted it to. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, but he knows he won’t get an answer. There’s no one here who will let him leave this place alive. 

Osran begins to chant. The group follows his lead but Mal can’t take his eyes off Lilliana. Beats pass, and the matriarch steps into the array with the blade and a single ceramic cup. It is undesigned and forgettable, painted a rich royal blue. It shines under the glint of the moon reflected off the blade. Lillana begins to sing, calling forth a goddess he’s never heard of before. She begs things of the goddess, he can’t hear it over the rushing of his blood in his ears. She holds the blade to the side of his neck. It’s cold. 

“Mother!” His voice cracks, straining against tears that fall without his permission. “Mom, what are you doing? Stop this!” Frija pulls his head back. The cup is placed under his throat. He’s too scared to struggle. “Mothe-”

The blade cuts through his skin like butter. Mal sucks in a garbled breath and chokes on blood. It hurts so much. He’s too woozy to do anything, pain blooming like fire across his neck and chest thumping with each labored breath and heartbeat. Mal opens his mouth to speak. Only blood comes out. He chokes on each breath. He can’t swallow, the blood can only go out. Mal doesn’t know what she does with the cup, he can’t see anymore. He doesn’t even feel himself fall.

The last thing he ever wanted to ask his mother was-

_ -Why? _

  
  
  
  


He doesn’t know how long he sat kneeling in the gray expanse of nothingness. His arms have long since been unbound, but his hair drips and the clothes he wears sticks to his skin. Mal doesn’t know how this happened. He remembers nothing after his throat was cut open, but if he listens hard enough, he can still hear the chanting. 

Mal doesn’t hunger. He doesn’t feel anything at all. Nothing except anger. 

It seethes, creeping into his bones and warming his skin. Malachi is bloodless, but oh, he  _ hates _ . His anger burns, blackening his eyes until all he can think about it his fury. Mal doesn’t know how long he sits and simmers, but the anger never goes away. Time means nothing after death, especially not where he is. It isn’t the astral plane of the Raven Queen’s domain, but it isn’t anything Mal recognizes. Everywhere he looks is the same empty expanse of nothing. When he sobs, the only thing he chokes on are his tears. 

For his entire life, Mal has been living a lie. He never suspected the betrayal that would later take his life. He knew his family kept him separate from everyone, locked away in the estate for twenty-two long years. The whole entire world laid bare, and Malachi never got to see any of it. But it wasn’t the loss of what he never had he mourned. Instead, Malachi wept for the love that was never truly there. Suddenly it all made sense. He just wished he could have known about it before he died. What could he have done? The offer to take the knight Ebernath’s help was long gone by now. How could he have known what was going to happen to him? 

The blood that drips from his throat never stops. He doesn’t know where it goes when it puddles onto the floor around him. Eventually, it disappears. Malachi is left in a state of suspended animation, a glance at his final moments held together by his anger. Perhaps that is what calls the god to him. He can’t speak, but he listens to the clack of boots come closer. 

Mal finally pulls his head up to look at the figure standing in front of him. Cloaked in a brilliant white robe stands a person with a golden mask. He recognizes the figure to be Kelemvor, a god of the dead and justice. Kelemvor says nothing, watching him with the impassivity of stone. Mal can think of no other reason why he would be here with him, except to escort him to the proper domain. But… Malachi doesn’t want to go peacefully. Trembling fingers grasp the hem of the robes. His bloody fingers don’t stain the cloak, ethereal fabrics don’t need to be washed. 

He opens his mouth to beg, but his vocal cords were too damaged to speak. Blood falls from his mouth instead, mixing with his tears.  _ Please _ . He wants to say.  _ I don’t want to be alone again _ . Mal whimpers, pressing his face into the divine robes of the god. The fear that has soaked into his bones leaves him tired, anger reminding him of what he couldn’t have. A hand presses onto the top of his head, gently running through his tangled hair. It’s so comforting, Malachi begins to sob. Kelemvor lets him cry into his clothes like a child, not letting him stand until the tears finally quiet and he stops spitting up blood at every gasp. 

The hands that pull him to his feet are strong, fitting of a god who spent his mortal life a warrior. Malachi is so ashamed of his tears and grief he cannot look him in his eyes. The god doesn’t let him hide behind his hair. He can’t see the face of the god, but he doesn’t need to. Neither of them has spoken, but he was given more comfort in this brief time than his entire life. 

“Malachi,” Kelemvor’s voice is gentle, commanding. He finds himself clinging to his every word. “Your death was as it was supposed to be, but it was unfair.” They mean nothing to him anymore. He could say nothing to make him feel any better about what happened. “In exchange for your service, I will bring you back to life.”

The shock would have silenced him if he could speak stills him instead. Instead, Mal gaps and doesn’t notice the blood that passes his lips again. A second chance to live the life denied to him. “What say you?” Now, Kelemvor sounded more like a man and less like a god. The details of his conception come to his mind, the love of Ankaurk so close to him yet out of reach his entire life. The whole time… and he never knew… 

Malachi nods. This time, he wakes and he’s drowning.

He doesn’t need to see to know he’s being smothered. His arms are unbound, but he’s wrapped in a cloth and tied by his feet to a weight. A beat passes before he realizes he’s under water. Malachi struggles, fingers grappling with the roughspun fabric to tear it apart. He wiggles, prying the heavy chains over his ankles. It barely moves, and he frantically slips out from his chains. Mal grew up a natural swimmer, but the surface feels so far away. His lungs burned with the need for air, throat struggling to make him open his mouth to gasp. He just barely reaches the surface by the time his body takes over for him. Mal chokes on water, leaving him coughing water out of his lungs. 

He feels stiff and so, so cold. On those sick days he spent bedridden for weeks on end, it feels the same as he aches now. Mal didn’t know why he was under there, his mind cannot come up with anything to explain. Quietly, he swims to the edge of the water and crawls his way out. Sitting on the shore is a set of armor and dry clothes. The metal glints under the full moon. 

“Ah, I should have left sooner.” He says to himself, but he doesn’t know why he was still here. Mal strips himself of the wet clothes and doesn’t mind the odd stain across the front of the once white robes. The new clothes fit a bit strangely, but they’re dry. Mal takes one last glance across the lake to where his home was. No lights were on inside the estate, but he knows where it is from memory. He leaves the robe at the beach of the lake and never turns back again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally when I wrote this, I left the details of the ritual vaguer. The original is months old by now, but it's the first time I mentioned Ankaurk. When he meets Kelemvor, he shows him more in detail about why he died. This wasn't really shown as much, and Ankaurk is only mentioned to be his father to him. Conveniently, Mal forgets all of this. A year in the making and Mal really turned into an angry person. The Fairhollow arc is coming up and I'm looking forward to seeing what Mal does when he finally figures out everything...


End file.
